


the witch and the baker

by sweetgoodgraciousangel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, This is just wholesome mlm content, credit to louieblueraspberry on tiktok for this story idea!, in short: cold witch falls in love with warm human, they are now husbands, ur welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24329254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetgoodgraciousangel/pseuds/sweetgoodgraciousangel
Summary: Waking up to a random human man on his porch wasn’t the most enthralling thing to the witch, but neither would have guessed what would eventually come out of it.
Relationships: witch/baker
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	the witch and the baker

**Author's Note:**

> credits to louieblueraspberry on tiktok for this idea!!

“No.”

That was the first thing out of the witch’s mouth the second the human man had let the word “ _favor_ ” slip out in the middle of his sentence. He doesn’t mean for it to come off as harsh or cruel (truthfully he was curious on what he wanted, yet wasn’t in any mood to grant a wish for a random person he didn’t even know), but these days he _would_ like to live his time out in peace. There was a reason he lived so deep and hidden within this swamp, heavily decorated with traps and illusions alike: he wanted to be _alone,_ if everything leading up to him didn’t hint at that enough. It was the one thing that really comforted him in recent days was knowing the only noises or creatures that would bother him would be the alligators in the swamp sloshing about in the waters or the moths that beat against the flame of his candles at night. 

What he _didn’t_ appreciate at the crack of dawn was hearing the crashing and cursing of a random human, stumbling blindly through every single trap and trick alike, ending up on his doorstep looking disheveled and tired. 

The man had a knapsack slung over his shoulder, a sheepish embarrassed grin on his face when the witch commented on the ruckus he made, all the while display an abnormally excited demeanor despite how absolutely exhausted he seemed. The witch was intrigued enough to listen to the man’s plight, but when the proposition of a favor came into the conversation, he immediately turned him away.

The man looked flabbergasted at such an abrupt answer.

“But, I haven’t even asked yet…”

“You don’t need to. Return home.”

“Why?”

The witch raised an eyebrow. Isn’t that obvious?

“This is no place for a human, wouldn’t you agree? Look around—poisonous bugs could bite at your heels any moment now, and the swamp water is filled with creatures you really only want to spare a glance at. Go home.”

The man tilted his head, the most innocent and calm expression on his freckled face. His smile… was far too bright, for such a dark place. 

“But you’re here, so it can’t be that bad, right?”

The retort made the witch grip the inside of his ripped cape tightly. It’s not that he wouldn’t expect such a… thoughtfully composed response from a human, but rather, he didn’t expect to be having a conversation with anyone today at _all_. The last time he’s ever spoken to someone… felt like an eternity ago, and the result of the interaction was less than pleasant or desirable. 

And by the sound of things, there was really nothing the witch could do to deter this man from doing what he wanted. So with a sigh, the witch shrugged off his doubt, and turned his back to the man.

“Hmph. Do what you will then. You should return home before night time… the swamp becomes uncomfortably cold. You’ll be sick before you know it if you stay.”

He goes to shut the door, but the persistence of the man is hard to ignore when he jumps and shouts.

“Wait, wait! Simply, you misunderstand my situation!”

The witch turns his head slightly, allowing the human the chance to speak.

“I really can’t go home,” he continues once he’s sure the witch is paying attention.

“...Why’s that?”

“Well,” the human breathes out a laugh, “I nearly broke a bone or two on the way here, and there’s not a chance I can get out without doing the same.”

The witch can’t help but scoff. “I can show you the way out.”

“I’d rather not right now. I made the journey all the way here, so why don’t I stay a while? Let me in, I’ll cook you a dish as a thanks, if you can spare the space.”

The witch’s house looks worse for wear than it really is. The outside is dilapidated with moss and mushrooms growing through the cracks, many spiders making their webs over the wide holes in the roof. On the inside though, it’s very well kept at least: the walls are painted a dull red and his floors have nice rugs over the dirt. He’s not embarrassed, but it’s not really meant for guests.

“I don’t have… an extra room. Just mine.”

“I’ll sleep on a couch then! I’ve brought a blanket and pillow, I’m sure I can make do.”

It can make do with _him_ , but not the witch. It’s not polite to throw someone wherever they would fit. But he finds himself reluctantly stepping aside, watching as the human’s eyes widened slightly, as if he couldn’t believe such an attempt _actually_ worked. He stepped inside the house with a bright expression and wiggled off the knapsack on his back, setting it on the floor in front of him and opened it up as the witch closed the door behind him. He brought out various small vials of oil, spices, seasonings, and blocks of food that he couldn’t name despite all of the ingredients he’s seen in his days while potion making. He turns to the witch while holding up a frying pan, smiling all the while.

“Where’s your stove?”

**_…_ **

It’s one night, the witch thinks to himself. One night and he will have his peaceful isolation once more.

...So he thinks, anyway.

He reprimands the human man gently about the intrusion, but excuses it when he’s served a rather delicious looking meal. The human calls it something so fancy, a word he’s never heard before and doesn’t really bother to jot down in his memory, but he eats it all and upkeeps the bare amount of common courtesy with a thanks. Again, he’s not intentionally being cold or wanting to disregard the man: he’s just more keen to be alone, doesn’t really know what to say or do to the kindness that human man seems to have loads of.

One night turns into two, then three, and then a week.

It’s almost strange how quickly he’s become accustomed to seeing someone on his worn out couch in the mornings, curled up and sleeping peacefully. In one moment of weakness and curiosity, he finds himself doting on the man a little from a distance. Mouth open, drool trailing from the corner of his lips, snoring lightly. The freckles on his face lavish his smooth tan skin, and an unfamiliar flicker of something goes off in the witch’s chest. He grasps the area over his heart, digging his fingers there above the material of his sweater, and exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. 

He turns away then, opting to ignore the strange occurrence in favor of grabbing his staff and going on his daily stroll through the swamp.

The morning air is chilly and there’s fog hovering above the ground. If he hadn’t known the path beneath his feet from walking it so many times, he’d be worried about tripping or falling. Instead, he comes to the edge of the swamp where he watches the morning routine of the alligators waking up, and contemplates what exactly he’s going to say to the human man later in the day. Because this can’t go on any longer. The witch liked his peace, but every time he’s gone to say it’s time for him to pack up his things and move along, he finds himself faltering more and more. He’s strayed far away from the idea of him leaving, but knows that really isn’t an option. Most of his human companions likely wouldn’t have encouraged him to make such a treacherous trek through the swamp and troubles, but that does make him wonder still why he came all the way here. He mentioned a favor, but hadn’t brought it up again since.

He remembers the last interaction he had with a human, in some town he was passing through. Snobby, not willing to understand—insulted for his magic. It’s a tiresome thing that made him want this place all to himself, not fond of having random strangers turn their noses up at him for lack of good reasoning. He knows he must be scary, with scars dashing across his lip and upper cheek. They’re from small accidents, but you’d be surprised at the rumors people would make up in an attempt to ruin a reputation you’ve barely had the chance to build within a society. Rejection hurts, he’s come to accept. And the loneliness is a mere price to pay for the peace he sought for when he came to this swamp alone.

“Oh, you’re here!”

The voice startled the witch, and he turns to see the human man looking worn from sleep approaching him. He stumbles over stray branches hidden under the fog, and before he thinks, he reacts: he reaches out to catch the man, his staff falling to the ground and disperses the fog. The man’s hands have come to rest on the arms of the witch, catching himself just as the witch had caught him.

“Aha… sorry.” The man says with a shy smile, cheeks flushing in slight embarrassment. Neither move to detach themselves from the other, not at least until the witch realizes his staff is in danger from being stepped on and snapped in half. He releases the man, his fingers and palms tingling from the lingering warmth as he clutches the now strangely cold wood of his staff in his hand.

“Did you need something?” The witch asked, clearing his throat. The man shook his head, his smile never wavering.

“What do you think about jam pastries for breakfast? I’ve had dough proofing since last night.”

**_…_ **

One week turns into two, then three, and a month.

The thought of the man leaving occasionally flickers up into the witch’s mind, but it invokes a very different feeling than it did at first. It’s a bit scary, he realizes one night, tampering with a potion bubbling in his cauldron as his eyes flicked upward every so often to watch the human man knead dough on his much more organized counter in his makeshift kitchen now.

What _if_ he leaves? He thinks to himself, shivering as he stirs the pot in time with his thoughts.

He wouldn’t stop him. He’s just barely not a stranger to the witch, and it wouldn’t be right of him to prevent him from leaving. But there’s that itching nagging idea, sitting at the front of his mind, taunting him. At first, he wasn’t very pleased with the human man’s presence in his life. Rather, he was annoyed, exasperated, and just waiting for him to return home. But after a handful of nights spent eating with him at the mostly unused dinner table he had in his kitchen, there’s been something incredibly comforting about having him there all this time. He’s like a spot of sunshine in his dark, dank, and dreary swamp. 

He’s like a spot of brightness in his day to day life.

“Do you like making bread?”

The man calls out to him, and the witch stops his stirring, having not realized he’d been caught staring. He tries to hide his blush by turning his head, pretending to be focused on the work in front of him.

“I’ve never made any.”

“Really? It’s a lot of fun. You should try it sometime.”

“I don’t know how. Honestly, I might burn this place down if I tried,” the witch explains with a slight laugh, the amusement leaving his body on impulse. He’d never been so… comfortable, expressing emotion like this.

“I doubt it! Come here, I’ll show you.”

The witch feels something rush from his heart through his veins. An electricity he’s unfamiliar with. Is this… nervousness?

“I, well…”

“Oh, unless you’re busy with your cauldron, of course.”

Without thinking, he waves his hand through the air and puts out the fire beneath the metal pot with his magic. The smoke billows up into the air and irritates the spiders poking through the cracks of the broken roof. The man laughs, waving him over.

“I’ll take that as you’re interested then. Come, I’ll show you how to knead the dough.”

**_…_ **

The witch stops counting the days. It’s been three months since the human man has made himself home within his own, and he really doesn’t mind anymore.

He learns the man worked as a baker in a discreet town somewhere far off from the swamp, explaining that as they eat roasted veggies and the bread they made together. They complement one another, the tastes, and he concludes that could also be a metaphor for himself and the man. They really do seem to connect peacefully, like their personalities have known how to react to the other since the dawn of time. 

The witch realizes though that fear of him leaving grows by the day, and he—out of shock more than anything—starts to distance himself. He eats the bread, cakes, and pastries the man makes for him but he stops reacting to his attempts at conversations and tries to hide himself away while deep reading his spell books and cleaning his growing collection of beetles in bottles.

The man doesn’t really seem bothered though. If anything, his determination shines through as he approaches the witch and offers help with anything he needs, like organization or dusting. The witch feels his heart fluttering, and unfamiliar stinging at the corner of his eyes—stop, stop, _stop—_ and turns away. He reflects on how coldly he acted toward the human his first day here, and then bites his tongue. He doesn’t want that distance to grow between them again.

This is wrong. This isn’t the way to handle this. His emotions… shouldn’t hurt the man. 

He swallows his own resistance and turns to him.

“Do you not have a home?” He asks, drawing his cape around himself tightly, as if to try and offer himself the comfort of another person holding him. 

“What do you mean?” The man asks, eyes curiously tracing over the piles of things he’s never had the chance at looking at too closely before. It’s not that the witch forbade him from doing so, but he supposes it must be a sense of respect the man had for the witch’s privacy.

“A home, where people miss you? Wonder where you are?”

“All friends I have know where I’ve journeyed to. Besides, isn’t this a home we’re standing in, right now?”

The witch feels his heart soar and this time he makes no attempt to stop or ignore it. He lets the emotion sink in his veins like a thrilling drug and rolls his words around his head, the sentiment burning delightfully in his skull.

“...I suppose it is.”

**_…_ **

The witch notices a half a year has passed.

He’s trying to figure himself out more and more, as he eats cookies and hot tea as he glances over the words of a book of his. He wasn’t really sure if he was fond of sweet things before, but as the sugar crystals melt on his tongue, he decides it’s his favorite flavor among all the new ones he’s been introduced to in recent time. He’s come to be quite knowledgeable about baking bread, crushing berries to make jams, gathering bits and pieces from plants to make the tea that he and the human man likes so much.

Eventually, he stops turning the pages in front of him and looks up to notice the man has not returned from the walk he said he was going on quite some time ago. He’s only comforted by seeing all of his stuff still neatly stacked onto shelves that he built one morning with the excuse that it would make it easier for him to organize all of his clothes and personal things, and he closes the book with the feather he uses as a page marker and stands up.

He just… wanted to be sure he wasn’t lost, is all.

He walks outside and shivers as the brisk air of the night brushes against the exposed skin of his cheek. He follows the path to the more open part of the swamp, and worries slightly when he doesn’t spot the man sitting at the mushy part of the bank watching the fish swim in the waters (the witch finds it so cute, the things the man has come to love to do while he’s stayed here).

He does, however, allow a wave of relief to hit him when he sees the man bent over with a basket tucked against his hip, picking leaves off a plant and setting them inside. He sighs fondly, then quietly approaches him.

“You’ve been out for a while,” he comments, the man glancing up at the sound of his voice.

“Really? Gosh, time must have slipped away from me. I was getting ingredients since we’re running low on a lot of things.”

The scent of mint wafts to the witch’s nose, and he finds himself smiling.

“Ah, I suppose we are. But…”

He grabs the man’s hand and draws it away from the bundle of leaves he was sticking his fingers into.

“That mint plant is swamped by poison ivy.”

The man blinked, then gasped.

“Is that why I’m so itchy?!”

He can’t help but laugh just a little, resigns himself to the idea that he should give a brief lesson of plants not to mess with in the swamp to the man, and guides him to their home. He rubs salve onto the irritated spots, wraps up his hand with clean bandages, and finds himself staring at the back of his hand when he finishes. He doesn’t say anything, nor does the man, and eventually he finds himself caving into the impulse desire that courses through his head and very gently kisses the bandages.

The man blushes, but when their eyes meet, its with tenderness and a stable comfort that the witch had forgotten could exist in the world a long time ago.

“Thank you.”

**_…_ **

The year is almost over, and it’s growing colder in the swamp. 

The witch doesn’t hesitate for too long before he makes a random decision, as he sits with fabric he’s woven himself and sews it into shapes bit by bit, and eventually he comes to the man with sweaters, a new apron, and other warm items of clothing. The man accepts with a gracious thank you, throwing his arms around the neck of the witch in a surprise hug that honestly almost makes him faint. 

He hesitates, but draws his arms around the man’s waist and indulges in his scent and warmth. It’s all he could ever ask for, in return for the warm dishes, conversations, dinners, company, and—

The witch closes his eyes. Neither has moved away yet. He feels something stinging at his eyes again, and he can’t stop it this time.

He also has him to thank for remembering that he is worthy to dote upon. That he _is_ worthy of being able to find someone important.

And when they do step back, they don’t let go of the other. It’s a second filled with emotion that the witch isn’t sure how to vocalize—he’s never been good with words. He’s never been good with people. But to him, this man isn’t the people he's met and dealt with before. He’s the embodiment of the sun peaking through the cracks of the thick trees above them, the definition of soft, of _love_.

And like that, as if the rest of the world and past are blurring around them, they kiss.

The witch finds his fingers twisting into the fabric of the shirt the man is wearing, and like that he feels himself get lost in what he’s been wanting for a while now. To break the line he was afraid to cross, in fear the man truly didn’t like him for some reason in the end. He knows now that fear is absolutely useless, as they indulge in their kiss and sentiments with nothing weighing the witch back any longer.

Like that, something in his life is completed as his fingers trace the man’s cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**_…_ **

A whole year passes.

Together they’ve patched up the house, especially the roof (sorry spiders), and they make breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. The witch knows how to make a pretty good pie with lots of practice and help from the man he’s started to innocently refer to as his husband (and in return, the man does the same, with his usual enthusiasm and excitement).

They share a bed, and clean the house once a week. The man has fixed up the kitchen so nicely, and his once sort of rickety oven is now polished and primed to perfection. The dilapidated outside is much more inviting than before, and distantly the witch thinks the same could be said for himself. Physically, he is no different, but does see something… brighter about himself.

One night over dinner, the witch remembers something from way back.

“Oh… wait a moment.”

The man meets his eyes.

“Yes?”

The witch sets his utensils down, leaning back in his chair.

“When you first came here, you said you had a favor to ask of me. What was it?”

The man pauses, then openly laughs, causing the witch to arch an eyebrow at the odd behavior. He holds his hands up innocently, then settles the hair that’s fallen in front of his face.

“You ask me now, after all this time?”

“Well, you did almost break a bone or two on your way here, didn’t you? Surely it was important.”

Silence fell over them. The man doesn’t even try to hide when he’s blushing anymore, but instead he does rise to his feet as he grabs his empty dish and leans over the table to brush his lips against the witch’s cheek.

“My favor was to get to know you, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> edit: okay so I’ve decided I love these two sm my heart is exploding. I have art of them on my Instagram page acrylic_angelic! so here’s some more info I’ve made about them:
> 
> the bakers name is Ingo (I left both of them anonymous of sorts in the piece to retain a fairy tale vibe) and the witch’s name is Edmund. 
> 
> I didn’t mention it in the piece (but I might in future stories abt these two!), but at one point in this Edmund vaguely reflects upon the fact the last interaction he had with a human didn’t end kindly because of the fact he was a witch. This occurred with the town Ingo worked as a baker! He was enamored by Edmund at first sight, but didn’t have the chance to speak to him since Edmund fled upon the rejection of the town’s folk. This is why Ingo goes after him! He wants to know Edmund and is genuinely wanting to be closer to him. If he planned on actually falling in love with him, I’d say it’s a huge maybe—that he would have just been content being his friend and reassuring him the behavior of his human friend’s back in the town was wrong—but he’s not complaining now that he has a witch husband he loves so much!!


End file.
